


Quicksilver between your fingers

by rainbowsuomi



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - All Media Types, Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M, a bit angsty, but also fluffy, flangsty?, translation experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowsuomi/pseuds/rainbowsuomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think I am one of those people constantly enamoured with the dark.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quicksilver between your fingers

**Author's Note:**

> A translation (mistakes are probably not mere distractions, but my mediocre knowledge of the English language. I'm sorry!).   
> Not beta'd.   
> Enjoy!

“Why are always the saddest things that attract me the most, Sixsmith?”  
My head lies on your chest, and the first morning light makes my eyes half-close. You know well this irrational habit of mine, to be inclined to melodrama right after our love-making, and you have always tolerated it – and nourished it, perhaps. This time you look at me, with more worry than usual, I think, as I turn and lay down on you again, fully, chest to chest. The light makes your hair look like spun honey; I run my fingers through it and I vaguely marvel at its softness. It is neither honey, nor gold, nor brass. 

You look at me, and your stare is rather preoccupied: your eyes under the sheets are usually lazy, sated with touch and with that muffled heaviness that comes after intercourse, darkened with just a speck of disquiet. This time you are frowning, your lips are disclosed and still flushed. I'd like to kiss them, but I refrain and smile instead.

In moments like this I realize the concreteness of your love for me, and how I, ingrateful bastard, do not deserve it, and probably do not fully understand and appreciate it. 

“My life is rather happy – let's omit the money matters, you know I don't care much for them.”, I murmur, and let my fingers lightly linger on your temples and smooth out the anguish on your forehead, fly over your cheekbones and draw the lines of your still wet mouth.  
I have you, my splendid scientist, rational and conscentious, my rock, my unmoving cliff; I have my music – I am my music –, and I possess an incredible, superhuman freedom, which enlightens me and makes me annoyingly proud and supponent.   
Probably in your eyes too, Sixsmith.

“I think I am one of those people constantly enamoured with the dark.”, I continue, and my voice cracks, its volume lowers. My touch keeps going, trembling, and travels along your slightly protruding collarbones, through your chest, and there my hand stops, splayed wide in the middle.  
I keep you symbolically still, but I know perfectly that you won't go away anyway, and the knowledge of your dependence to me stirs my chest with mixed feelings.  
Dependence.  
Do you depend on me?  
Does it depend on me?  
I think so.

“And with death, too. Maybe.” “Don't say such things, please.”  
You admonish me, and I look at you. Are there tears in my eyes?  
“I'll die young. I can't see myself in the future. If not in an extremely close future. Tomorrow night, that I see clearly. I see both of us.”  
I kiss you, my lips open on yours, and you whisper, incredibly softly, to stop it, stop it, please.  
I say nothing more, and you say you love me.

I say nothing more.


End file.
